A Real Good Day
by Fantasma Amico
Summary: Enjolras is a behavioural analyst. Grantaire, he's an artist. He thinks Enjolras is an artist too, he just needs to realize his genius. (Les Mis au, serial killer!grantaire/profiler!enjolras)
1. Chapter 1

_"Death is on your heels, baby, and sooner or later it's gonna catch you. And part of you wants it… not only to stop the fear and uncertainty, but because you're just a little bit in love with it. Death is your art. You make it with your hands, day after day. That final gasp. That look of peace. Part of you is desperate to know: What's it like? Where does it lead you? And now you see, that's the secret. Not the punch you didn't throw or the kicks you didn't land. (...) ...you're just putting off the inevitable. Sooner or later, you're gonna want it. And the second- the second- that happens… You know I'll be there. I'll slip in…__**have myself a real good day.**__"_

**I own nothing but my own words xoxo**

The age was so corrupted. A common notion, yes, but no less true. The world slowly morphing into a technological shell, leaving very little to no room for anything which hands could touch. Most people could care less, convenience is key in easier survival, so why care about it? Yet, Grantaire, he was a man of classics. Soft scores through contact, bone sensually meeting key. A brush gripped lightly in hand, stroking with purpose. Paint thirsting for a canvas, and his was waiting.

Art is a science, specific and though not pointed. Everything has it's place amongst the chaos, it just has to search for it until everything fits just as the variables turn into a masterpiece. There is a calm in the storm, and it needs to connect it's winds. Your canvas waits patiently for your inspiration to scream itself to death as your paint flows, and then the drops collect themselves in the most beautiful way. It has all become one but that is not where it ends.

An artist knows where they want their work to be, but very few get it there. So far as Grantaire was concerned, there was a way around that. Make your own display, make sure it can be seen. Pull the blindfold of naivety away from the world's eyes, and let them see what art looks like.

The cynic's era of expression would follow.

The smack against the desk was enough to warrant a punch in the face, had Courfeyrac been closer, but he knew better than that at this point. He took a large step back and watched the jolt in the other man's shoulders, blonde curls shifting on the desk as Enjolras' head lifted to give him the best exhausted look of disdain he could manage. Courfeyrac sighed. "Man, don't you have a bed? Or ever go home?"

Enjolras sat up, rubbing at his face before his look of annoyance became more solid and powerful. "Of course I do. I was busy, it happens."

"So do back problems, which is what you're going to have if you keep sleeping on your desk." He released another sigh and Enjolras simply continued to stare at him. "Whatever. If you want coffee, get it fast, 'Ferre and Bahorel are waiting for you."

Enjolras began to rub at his eyes as the other man finished, quickly standing up instead. "Where?" Courfeyrac blinked, and Enjolras matched it. "...What?"

"It's a homicide, take it down a few pegs."

"I wasn't..." The blond sighed, closing his eyes and taking in a breath. "Okay. Where?"

Courfeyrac shrugged, pulling the keys out of his pocket. "Art gallery. They need me too, I'll drive, come on."

Enjolras squinted, following him as he started walking. "You're the analyst, shouldn't you be there already?"

With the other man's back to him, his eyes rolling was still close to audible. "Someone needed to wake you up, I lost. Besides, Bahorel called and they haven't done much with the scene yet anyhow."

As they walked outside Enjolras tried not to squint at the sudden brightness. "Why not?"

There was a silence, one to the extent that to anyone else would have become uncomfortable. Courfeyrac looked back at him before walking toward the driver's side of the car. "...This one is yours."

Most homicide detectives that Enjolras had met were perpetually distraught. It made sense, of course, and the fact that he understood that and didn't get upset in return only seemed to make them hate him more. Most of them, he found, also despised television shows depictions of them. They didn't always push themselves to the very heart of the matter, or shove a suspect up against an interrogation room wall when overworked. Most of them just wanted to do their damn job and go to bed. This consensus of anger and apathy, more than anything, left him wondering just where Combeferre and Bahorel came from.

If any pair could ever fall under the cliched foundation of good cop, bad cop, it was the two of them. Combeferre was one of the most clear headed and calm men that Enjolras had ever met, especially within law enforcement. Were it not for the extreme commitment he had to his job, it would be a wonder how he even got there. He could logically see every side of a story, and in doing so made for a damned good detective. The acclaim with which he could be given for this made all the more sense as to why he would be given Bahorel as a partner.

Bahorel could see things clearly, he just couldn't take them as well as could Combeferre. Rather, he probably appreciated the media's interpretation of throwing a suspect against the wall, Enjolras had seen him do so more than once. As aggressive as he could be, when it came to witnesses and attempted victims, he was oddly gentle, though it was best not to call him on that. The two detectives evened one another out quite well, and made a fantastic pair, if not seeming a bit characterical. They were easier to predict once you got to know them, and the sight of them standing outside of the crime scene tape, Bahorel impatiently, made Enjolras quirk the smallest smile.

"Oh, sleeping beauty is off his ass, about damn time." Bahorel's rough voice was loud enough that Enjolras could hear it through window and he sighed before getting out of the car.

"I am not that hard to wake up, you three exaggerate."

Courfeyrac chimed in as he walked out of the car as well, moving to the back of it. "Hard? No. Scary? Yes. Were it not for my being faster than you, you would've punched me in the face more than once by now."

"That's why we pick you." Bahorel smirked. "You could use a black eye, pretty you up a little."

The analyst rolled his eyes, not looking up. "Please, I'm pretty enough. Not everyone wants to look like Rocky after he lost a fight, Stallone."

Enjolras walked over to Combeferre before he could hear Bahorel come up with a response. "Where do you need me?"

Combeferre nodded toward the building, peeling his eyes away from the other two and speaking quietly. "In here, come on."

The two passed through the yellow tape, moving into the front entrance of the gallery, Enjolras staring at the other man along the way. "Courfeyrac said this one is mine. Why is that?"

Combeferre didn't respond or look at him until they hit the showroom entrance, where more tape was strung. He stopped, turning to look at him. "Take a look."

Enjolras blinked, watching him a moment longer before nodding and crossing through the tape and opening the door. He stopped immediately where he was, focusing on the center of the room. There was a sculpture on display, bronze and spiked, abstract in some way he assumed, but that wasn't what mattered. On the top and tallest spike legs dangled in the back, arms and head thrown back in the front, a body skewered on the spike through the abdomen. Enjolras was glued to where he stood, staring at the sight.

"Unique, huh?" Bahorel's voice echoing through the gallery made Enjolras jump only slightly, blinking back into reality. "Creepy as all fuck, but definitely new. Up your freaky alley."

Enjolras blinked again, shaking his head and turning to look at both detectives now standing there before looking at the body again. "...Where's the blood?" He took a few steps closer, examining. "You don't impale someone like this without them bleeding out, the floor and the sculpture should be covered. They drained the body first." He turned to look at them both, each of them looking at each other.

Combeferre looked back at him first. "That's what Courf is for, we were hoping he could find something. They may have drained the body somewhere else on purpose." Enjolras looked away, and the detective continued. "...Unless you're thinking something else. Maybe they're keeping it?"

Enjolras stepped away from the sculpture, looking at the wall of covered paintings. "...Have you spoken to the director, do they cover the paintings when they close?"

"We spoke to her, but we didn't ask." Bahorel raised a brow, watching him. "She was a bit freaked out, you know, with her new dead body display."

Combeferre gave Bahorel a look before glancing toward the wall. "Should we ask her?"

Enjolras walked closer still, looking at the largest covered canvas on the middle of the wall, adjacent to the sculpture itself. His eyes travelled toward the floor, and he knelt down close, focusing on small, scarlet droplets which seemed to have dried there. He rubbed his finger against it to pick it up, sniffing it and recognizing the faint hint of metallic. He stood again, staring at the covered canvas. "No."

He grabbed ahold of the cover, pulling it away and freezing in place again, Bahorel's voice the only one in the room to sound. "_Holy shit._"

The canvas was a bright white that stood out more amongst it's contents. The splatters that covered it were Pollockesque and varying between large sprays of bright red and strong, rich droplets of burgundy that combined in a way which was morbidly artistic, and Enjolras tilted his head as one would in trying to decipher an abstract. He blinked, turning fully around. "You're right. This one is mine."

**contact;** snakejolras on tumblr;


	2. Chapter 2

**contact**; snakejolras tumblr

* * *

The scene itself didn't take much time to finish up, especially when a majority of their evidence was contained within a canvas. Much of it consisted of photographs, maybe more than necessary, but Enjolras had insisted on most of them. He'd also ensured they be processed and printed when they had gotten back to the precinct. He took them into an empty room, laying them out as they closely and with enough organization as so he was still at the scene itself, sitting next to them and occassionally picking one up and inspecting it closer. When he heard someone knock against the door his shoulders jolted up a bit, almost a jump, and continued as he was despite feeling the other man's gaze on him.

"You know, those are digital. You don't have to do it like this." Enjolras gave a hint of a smile at Combeferre's voice and said nothing, causing the other man to sigh. "It's past noon, you've been in here too long to not have something. Or you can at least look at them at your desk so I'm not the only one who has to listen to Bahorel while you do."

Enjolras looked up at him, shrugging. "This is new to me, I want to make sure I have everything right."

Combeferre nodded, looking away. "Yeah, well...we're on a time frame, unfortunately."

Enjolras nodded, picking up photos. "This is a serial killer, I am aware."

"Not what I meant."

Enjolras froze where he was, somewhere between his mind pausing for an intake of horror and complete exasperation. Finally he came back to reality with a sigh, looking at him again. "Thenardier could smell the blood, hmm?"

Combeferre gave him a look as he continued to pick up photos, more frantically now. "He's doing his job."

"His "job" is to expolit murders for entertainment, it's disgusting and I won't appease him just because he can try to hold out for any words he can grab onto to blow things out of proportion and dehumanize victims. So, really, I don't care."

"Yes, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to hear you're the one taking charge here." The other man spoke with a sigh, causing Enjolras to stop his organizing and stare at him with a raised brow. "Hey, don't look at me like that, I didn't say I have a problem with it. Refreshing actually." Combeferre watched him for a moment longer as he returned to the photos before sighing within his words once again. "Do you want me to bring everyone else in here?"

Enjolras glanced back up at him, biting his lip before looking back down and speaking more calmly, "...Yes."

Combeferre continued to watch him before nodding, turning away and closing the door with barely a sound, only for Courfeyrac to fling it open a moment later. The look that Enjolras had given to the detective before returned as the photos still left on the floor blew along a bit, and Courfeyrac made a bit of a hissing noise. "Sorry. ...Don't look at me like that, that's actually scary."

Enjolras rolled his eyes and looked away as Combeferre returned and Bahorel followed, with Joly and Eponine behind them. Eponine glanced around before looking at Enjolras. "You couldn't have picked a room with chairs?"

"Please, 'ponine, Enjolras is a man of simple taste. Not sleeping in a bed, not sitting in chairs..." Courferyrac trailed off as Enjolras looked at him again. "Okay, got it. Let's just do this."

Enjolras gave a hint of a smirk and nodded and Joly locked the door, standing as the rest of them all sat down in a semi-circle. There were only a handful of the photos now left on the floor, but they were organized specifically. "So, we're on a limited time frame," Enjolras began. "but from what I can tell, this crime scene reads like an artwork."

Bahorel scoffed, looking at him. "Yeah, pretty sure that was the whole point of the art gallery. Maybe try starting with something we don't know."

"That's not what I mean." He sighed quickly, picking up a picture of the canvas. "He's a copycat. He made abstract art out of blood spatter, something which Jackson Pollock's paintings used to reflect. And this," he picked up another, a front side of the victim sprawn across the sculpture. "I've seen this, I know I have. He's copying artists, and there has to be a reason. Whoever he is choosing, they reflect something in him."

"So he's not just an artist, he wants to give you a message you know you can find right away." Combeferre looked at the photos before meeting Enjolras' eye. "Why?"

Bahorel rolled his eyes, "Because he wants the attention. Not that hard to figure out."

"No." Enjolras shook his head, quieter. "If he just wanted attention he could be more rash than this. He'd seen abrupt, purposely angry and scary messages. This he somehow thinks is okay. It's not the murder he cares about, it's the works he makes. ...I think he wants someone to see parts of him he thinks he can't get out."

"Pollock was an alcoholic." Everyone looked back toward the door at Joly, who stood up a bit straighter and looked away. "I...went on this museum tour. With biographies of artists. He was an alcoholic, scared people a good bit of the time with it."

Enjolras held the picture he was still holding out to him, looking directly at him. "Do you know this?"

Joly took a small step closer, squinting despit his glasses and noddiing, softly. "Blondel, I think. Minus the uhm..." he closed his eyes, trying not to cringe at the word. "The spike. But the positoning." He opened his eyes, shaking his head. "But I can't think of anything notable about the artist."

Enjolras nodded, sitting the photo back down. "What's the painting?"

"The Fall of Icarus. ...Do you think that'll tell you something too?"

Enjolras blinked, settling back into his seat. "Yeah, I think that'll help." He offered a small smile. "Thank you." He quickly began grabbing the rest of the photos and stood, looking at Joly first. "Let me know if the body has anything you think is significant too." He glanced at Eponine and Courfeyrac as he stepped toward the door. "And either of you let me know if you find anything on the canvas."

The rest of them looked back at him as they began to stand and Bahorel raised a brow, "Where the hell are you going?"

"To work, what do you think?"

"Uh-uh. Not alone, anyway."

Enjolras blinked, turning around again. "...Why not?"

Bahorel smirked, walking closer. "Because if you get to be the leader on this case, you get to deal with the new guy. He'll be here in an hour."

"...Isn't this a bit much to put on them at once?"

Bahorel shook his head, walking past him to the door. "Nah, it's not like it's action, it's just the psych flavouring of paperwork and traning. You'll barely know he's there. Or...well, yeah, you, you will. His name's Pontmercy, don't ditch him in the suburbs."


End file.
